And the Air Shall Stand Red
by elanurel
Summary: There was something going on in Philadelphia besides the rain and Dean wasn't leaving until they figured out why a girl covered in triskeles and triquetras had a Zoroastrian symbol carved into her back.  Adult content and themes.  WIP
1. Shadows From a Thousand Years Back

**And the Air Shall Stand Red  
**

If it were up to Sam, they'd be halfway to New Orleans. But there was something going on in Philadelphia besides the rain – Winchester business with a side of ritual killings – and Dean wasn't leaving until they figured out why a girl covered with triskeles and triquetras had a Zoroastrian symbol carved into her back.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all the time if they were.

**Overall Rating**: M (Language)

**Overall Pairings**: Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC

**Miscellaneous**: Spoilers up to 3.04. I began writing this for the spn-halloween challenge on livejournal (and completely missed the deadline thanks to my muse crashing headlong into bronchitis) using a prompt by extraonions. One thing to note is that I did start writing this well before 3.05, adding in references from previous episodes as they aired to stay as much within canon as possible; unfortunately, based on killabeez's timeline, this story takes place during the same week as 3.05. As Jensen would say, the operative word is fiction. This is first and foremost a case story but there are sexual situations involved; that being said, I wouldn't consider this a "romantic" story but rather a case file with a little bit of action.

**Betas: ****emgrace** graciously provided feedback and help with grammar, pointing out situations where I needed more details. **hhhellcat** asked me all of the hard questions, keeping my plot focused and finding the holes when I was too close to the story to do so. **theemmer** provided encouragement and much support, regardless of how slowly I was writing this story. Special thanks to **embroiderama**, who kept me sane. The good parts are all them. The mistakes? Those are all me.

* * *

**Chapter One: Shadows From a Thousand Years Back**

_There are nights and there will be but nights  
For endless are these steps –  
Shadows from a thousand years back_

_Springfield, __PA_

It was just a storm but Iris would have called it Fate.

Rebecca's head whipped up from her book when the door blew open, the shrill ring of the bell announcing the slight figure tumbling through the front door – pushed forward as much by the crack of lightning as the door closing swiftly behind him. He looked so bedraggled, wet spots on the shoulders of his worn t-shirt where his hair touched down, that Rebecca handed him a cup of hot chai before she realized their fingers were touching. She even pulled a towel out from underneath the counter, returning his lopsided grin with a laugh as he attempted to dry off his hair with a piece of terrycloth that barely covered his head.

He said his name was Nick, with another half-hearted attempt to wring more water out of his hair. He was kind of cute, red hair curling around his ears as it dried. It made her wish that humidity didn't turn her braid into three thick tangles of curls tied together into one long knot. It didn't help that her latte-splattered apron couldn't quite hide the faded seams on her mother's old bell bottoms.

He was the first person she'd seen in an hour.

After the lunch crowd rushed back to work armed with cups of coffee that they sipped during the long march back to their cubicles and computers, Rebecca spent most afternoons in the company of dusty books and a mangy old black cat that Iris called Pyewacket. Iris would laugh when Rebecca said it was her own fault that the cat was possessed, scratching up the counters and throw rugs, but that didn't keep Rebecca from sneaking Pyewacket a little cream whenever she was near the Espresso machine.

Most of the customers didn't even make it into the bookstore, preferring Iris' coffee recipes to her eclectic book collection and the herbs she dried off the rafters, but Nick walked around the overstuffed shelves with a solemn expression on his face. When he made it back to the coffee counter and started asking her about music and what it was like being a Barista, Pyewacket made a curious noise and jumped up next to Nick on an empty stool. He petted the cat absentmindedly, not laughing when the girl that he was flirting with burned herself handing him a second cup of chai, and pretended that it was perfectly normal for a middle-aged witch to tack a coffee shop onto her bookstore.

Rebecca figured out why the third time he showed up at Enchanted Grounds and pulled a dog-eared copy of _The 21 Lessons of Merlyn_ out of his backpack. Iris wouldn't even offer it as a special order in the store; she said it was a misogynistic load of crap that demonized women the same way that the Inquisition turned them into witches. Iris' nostrils flared when she saw Nick's hand resting on the closed cover. Rebecca held her breath, waiting for the inevitable tirade. Iris just sighed and finished Nick's drink.

But Iris didn't put extra cinnamon sprinkles on his chai, which was the closest she ever came to giving anyone the evil eye.

He had Iris laughing right along with Rebecca, though, before the evening crowd came in – and Iris flashed him the biggest smile Rebecca had seen her give anyone in a long time when Nick held the door open for Rebecca at the end of her shift. The book was the one thing they didn't talk about as they walked to her evening class, a conversation that didn't stop until Rebecca was already five minutes late. She waved at him over her shoulder, running the last block with her bag pulled in tightly to her waist.

Walks turned into dinners – usually some hole in the wall that she had read about in _Townscene_, places with food that Nick would only agree to eat if he got to pick out the movie.

He never pushed too hard, even after nights out to watch his favorite band and she'd drink so much beer that Rebecca could only stand upright by hanging all over him; she would giggle into his shoulder and then against his mouth while he kissed her goodnight and Nick would wait until Rebecca unlocked the door to her apartment building and stumbled up the stairs.

And Nick never asked the obvious question, letting the answer come out in slow degrees – an old story with its chipped diamond ring and a car and a boy named Johnny speeding down a back county road outside of Grindstone – but he'd tuck the afghan around her tighter as they sat together on her old green couch.

Walking to her evening massage class with him after another shift at the store, arguing about some theory Nick had read in one of his crazy books and getting teased because she was a skeptic who could argue paganism like a pro, fit into her life like the cup of tea she had every morning while she looked out her kitchen window or the way Iris' books helped her while away the hours she spent by herself in the store.

Rebecca Burkhardt had finally broken the curse.

She made her decision the night Nick voluntarily suggested dinner at her favorite Indian place.

They walked out onto the sidewalk, losing themselves in a bustling crowd that was pulling up umbrellas before the sprinkling rain turned into something else. Nick came up from behind to wrap his arms around her waist like he always did after dinner and Rebecca leaned back into him, his chin resting on the top of her head. "You look good when you're not dressing up like a hippie," he teased. "I just wish you didn't have to cover up that dress with your jacket."

"The rain is freezing, Nick." And the heels had _not_ been a good idea.

He ignored that, tightening his arms with a sigh. "I'm going to miss you."

"I'm only going to be gone for a week."

"I could come with you."

Rebecca turned in his arms. "That would defeat the purpose of going on a sabbatical." She went every year, spending a week alone in her family's old cabin. She was hoping she'd have better luck with the pastel chalk and pad of paper in her living room. Last year's laptop and the outline for what was going to be the next Great American novel had been a disaster but, on the plus side, Rebecca hadn't needed a lot of kindling that week to get the fire going in the fireplace. "But I _could_ make it so you won't forget me while I'm gone," she added, opening her mouth underneath his.

He smiled against her lips just when it started to pour.

Suddenly, Nick had her by the wrist and they were running down the sidewalk and cutting through the park on the road that ran through it; the shortcut to her apartment building was a hell of a lot easier to navigate when it wasn't slick and she wasn't wearing heels. A van barreled behind them, her heart pounding as the heel broke off her left shoe and she lurched forward just as the van squealed to a stop in front of them.

Nick's grip around her wrist began to ache when the side door opened.

"She's practically _ripe_." It was a purr, pouring out of a man wearing thick glasses and waving a stone on a chain that gave off a white light. "But there's not much time."

Nick slammed Rebecca's arms behind her back, holding her in place as the air turned sticky sweet. She managed to twist around and look at him when something jammed into her neck, a cool liquid thrust into her vein with a push that made her entire jaw go so numb that she couldn't even scream. Bad luck really did follow Rebecca Burkhardt like a plague rat but that didn't keep her from trying to kick and run as fast she could.

Nick's eyes darkened when he pushed her backwards into the van.

But he had a lopsided grin on his face as Rebecca fell – like there was nothing wrong with the way her eyelids fluttered in time to her slowing heartbeat – and the door slammed shut with a metallic clang, a dull vibration in the back of her head before everything went black.

* * *

_October 24, 2007 - __Philadelphia__, PA_

Sam was staring out the window, watching the rain with the same goddamned pout he used to wear when Dad refused to buy him a packet of Transformer bubble gum at the Circle K – but Sam wasn't six anymore and Dad wasn't the one pulling the Impala into the parking lot of the Bensalam Arms.

Its neon sign crackled in the rain, reflecting off of Sam's grimace as they both opened their doors. Dean loped along behind Sam after they grabbed their gear from the trunk, catching a glimpse of himself off the broken edge of the window in a Camaro that had seen better days. A little over five months since hell broke loose and all Dean had to show for it were a few more scars underneath his t-shirt, a couple of aches down his back from their last job and a perpetually pissed-off brother who just didn't _get_ that some deals were never meant to be broken.

It didn't take long to get a room – the same room they always found no matter where the road ended when Dean decided to stop driving, with two small beds covered with threadbare comforters and one ratty armchair sitting next to the largest crack in the peeling wallpaper. Dean set his duffel on the floor but Sam was already sprawling across the nearest mattress, pulling books out of the bag that he'd picked up somewhere in Florida and reaching behind him to turn on the light. It flickered once, twice, before sputtering out.

"Goddammit!" Angry eyes turned on Dean.

"We can't stop the war." Sam didn't say anything to that, just stared at him with their father's eyes while Dean settled against the headboard of his own bed. "Bobby says there's signs here."

"There are signs everywhere, Dean. Like in New Orleans." Sam frowned but he would meet Dean's eyes.

"What's so goddamn important about New Orleans, anyway? Did you find a voodoo priestess who can whip up a Get out of Hell juju bag? Don't you even _think_ about bringing me back as a zombie." Dean snorted. "We were three hours out of Philadelphia, Sam. What was I supposed to say? My brother's been trying to get me to the Big Easy so I can recharge my mojo. Those signs you're tracking in Philly don't mean bumpkus, Bobby – not when we're saving my sorry ass with Mardi Gras beads." Dean shifted, bringing his hands back behind his head. "At least I got out of flashing my tits at total strangers. You know how embarrassed I get."

"This isn't a joke."

"Nope, it's not."

"And the signs aren't the same here. There weren't any sky formations."

"Same kinds of animals dying the same ways, though."

"And what would Dad say?" Sam's voice was tight and his hands were clutched around a book he held to his chest, old worn leather with cracks Dean had memorized by the time he was ten – the Winchester family legacy.

"You've got seven months to take out as many evil sons of bitches as you can, Dean." Dean didn't even have to close his eyes to see John Winchester's gruff smile, the way his father looked at him after clawing his way out of hell. _Approval._ Just like the hospital, when all someone had to do was sell their soul. Like father, like son. Dean shook his head sharply. "Now you're not playing fair, Sam" he added. "Pulling the Dad card on me."

"You're the one who pulled the Dad card," Sam retorted. Dad's journal fell into his lap.

It was another verse of the same song they'd been singing since Dean met that demon at the crossroads. He'd heard it so much that he probably hummed it in his sleep, about how selfish he was and that he'd done to Sam what Dad had done to him – how he was sabotaging every attempt Sam made to try and take back the one thing that had always been Dean's to give. Dean opened his mouth just as Sam grabbed another one of the books, jamming it up so high his nose looked stuck in the binding.

Sam was ending conversations the same way he did when he was six, too.

Dean shut his mouth abruptly and hopped off the bed when Sam's shoulders stiffened. "I'm going out."

"Because catching every VD known to man is a great way to take out as many evil sons of bitches as you can." And goddamn Sam didn't even look up from the book, his mouth a thin line as his eyes flickered across the page while Dean double-stepped to the door.

Dean turned the doorknob. "Don't wait up."

"I never do."

The door slammed behind him, the falling rain a cold shock against his ears.

Sam _really_ didn't get it. And it wasn't just because the deal couldn't be broken – it was rock solid, no matter how many loopholes Sam thought he could find with his Stanford brain and all those books he'd been collecting at estate sales and weird stores across the country. But how in the hell was Dean supposed to protect Sam when those seven months were up and Dean Winchester was buzzard food? It didn't matter how many sons of bitches he took out because he wouldn't be around to get the one son of a bitch whose gun had a bullet with Sam's name on it.

The only thing to do was get drunk.

* * *

A/N

The title of this story is a song lyric from "The Seven Witches" by Obtained Enslavement. I've never heard of the band before but when I Googled for keywords, this came up and seemed to fit the feel of what I was attempting to accomplish. The lyrics sprinkled throughout the story are from the same song, except for the very last two – which are lyrics from "Samhain" by Ragnarok. I thought they were fitting given the ending, even if the rhyme for the last quote is based on a mispronunciation of the actual word.

_The 21 Lessons of Merlyn_ is a real book. And I really think it's a load of mostly misogynistic hooey that doesn't take into account that there were female practitioners of the same faith that brought us druids. (Douglas Monroe should read Norma Lorre Goodrich's _Priestesses_.)


	2. The Humbled Creatures of God

**And the Air Shall Stand Red  
**

If it were up to Sam, they'd be halfway to New Orleans. But there was something going on in Philadelphia besides the rain – Winchester business with a side of ritual killings – and Dean wasn't leaving until they figured out why a girl covered with triskeles and triquetras had a Zoroastrian symbol carved into her back.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all the time if they were.

**Overall Rating**: M (Language, Minor Sexual Situation)

**Overall Pairings**: Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC

**Miscellaneous**: Spoilers up to 3.04.

**Betas: ****emgrace** graciously provided feedback and help with grammar, pointing out situations where I needed more details. **hhhellcat** asked me all of the hard questions, keeping my plot focused and finding the holes when I was too close to the story to do so. **theemmer** provided encouragement and much support, regardless of how slowly I was writing this story. Special thanks to **embroiderama**, who kept me sane. The good parts are all them. The mistakes? Those are all me.

* * *

**Chapter Two: The Humbled Creatures of God**

_Naked is she  
For the gate are but purity  
And the air shall stand red  
Coloured by the humbled creatures of God_

Sam stood in the doorway, balancing coffee in his hands as he kicked the door closed behind him. The noise was sharp but Dean didn't even move; he'd come back to the room the night before, smelling like cheap whiskey mixed with tequila, and face-planted right next to Sam on the bed. Sam was still awake, looking through Dad's journal again for clues on someone who might be able to help with Dean's problem.

Someone who wasn't _her_.

Sam swallowed. He didn't know what was worse – the fact that Dean still smelled like a one-man liquor store or that his brother's drool was pooling across Sam's open copy of _Flora Diabolica_.Sam didn't believe that a little belladonna would convince the Crossroads Demon to change its mind but he couldn't get Dad's voice out of his head, going on about some 'herb of entreaty' that was needed for a specific spell, and it'd been awhile since Sam had read the book anyway.

_The one clue you need is always in the last place you'd even think to look._

Every morning felt like he was back at square one. Bobby's admonition that Sam's answer wasn't going to be found where he was looking hadn't kept Sam from reading and re-reading every book he'd stuffed into bags and every spare bit of room he could find – even that space in the Impala where Dean had hidden his condoms. It'd been three weeks since Dean's last 'beautiful and natural act' and his brother had moved into the booze portion of the 'ignoring my impending doom' process.

The condoms had been replaced by an old grimoire he'd found at a garage sale. Sam figured he had a couple more weeks before he needed to find a new place to stash it, after Dean started swinging back into the 'saying fuck you to my impending doom by screwing every girl I can' phase.

But Dean was right about one thing. There was something going on in Philadelphia besides the rain and it was Winchester business. Dean wasn't going to leave until he'd figured it out. Whatever _Ruby_ wanted Sam to do in New Orleans was going to have to wait.

Sam frowned, setting the coffee carefully on the table between both beds. He'd bought a copy of the_Philadelphia__ Inquirer_ along with the coffee, its headline proclaiming 'Druid Killer Strikes Again!' in block letters over an inch high. Everyone standing in line at the coffee shop was talking about it, how some old man walking to his donut shop found a woman's body as he cut through the park. She was laying spread-eagled and face down in a circular fountain with her head bashed in and her throat cut. The woman in front of Sam was reading the article; he looked over her shoulder at an artist's representation of the symbols carefully etched into the victim's skin, triskeles and triquetras looping in on themselves.

The killers had even surrounded her body with small wicker dolls at the four quarters of the circle made by the fountain's wall, weaving sprigs of dried holly into her hair, but all of that couldn't hide the symbol carved along her spine.

It was demon magic, no matter how prettily they wrapped the package.

If Sam had to guess, he'd pick Zoroastrian – black bowls filled with an innocent man's blood and a blonde's bright smile while she swirled a finger counterclockwise, whispering words that no human should ever know.

He rolled the newspaper up and smacked Dean across the back of the head with it right as Dean let loose with a snore that should have woken up the rest of the motel.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean glared at him, eyes tight slits staring at Sam from underneath his disheveled hair. "There better have been a goddamn fly on my head." He wiped his mouth, drool slick across his hand as he sat up. "It smells like something crawled up a wendigo's ass and died."

"That would be you," Sam retorted, sitting down on the opposite bed.

Dean swiveled his legs over the bed, his face going white. "I think I swallowed the worm," he managed, rushing towards the small bathroom and slamming the door behind him.

Dean emerged five minutes later, still just as white around the eyes, and he scrubbed a fist down his cheek. "So what was so important that you had to interrupt my beauty sleep by whacking me on the head?" He sat down slowly, pushing books off the bed into a pile on the floor.

"This."

Dean's eyes widened as he unrolled the newspaper. "Druid killer?" He let out a low whistle. "This happened last night?"

"Twelfth victim in as many weeks." Sam leaned forward, hands on his knees. "And take a look at what was carved onto her back. Sure, she was killed with the trappings of an ancient Druidic sacrifice but if that's a Celtic symbol, I'll eat your shorts."

Dean snorted, looking more like himself than he had in weeks. Hell, maybe even months. "How did you know she was killed using the _trappings_ of an ancient Druidic sacrifice?"

"Because I read books, Dean. Those things with words in them." Sam grinned.

"Figures you'd actually read books instead of looking at the dirty pictures." Dean grinned back. It was almost like it was before Dean had done something so half-assed and selfish that Sam wanted to kick his ass on general principle. He never thought that anything could be worse than when they were looking for Dad, when avenging Jess was what mattered most – until Dad died and Dean followed in their father's footsteps.

There was something fundamentally screwed up with Winchesters when dying and going to hell was the only way they knew how to save each other.

Sam's mouth twisted and Dean frowned. "Girl got a name?" Dean asked.

"The police are still trying to identify her."

Dean's eyes flicked back and forth as he continued reading the article. "So we've got twelve people getting murdered a week apart from each other." Hazel eyes narrowed. "Why the hell would a reporter mention _that_?" His voice trailed off and suddenly Dean was rummaging through the books, picking up an old almanac and flipping quickly until he was staring at a page with all the phases of the moon on it – fingers tracing a line of dates. "Holy shit. Last night was a waning moon. If there were twelve people murdered…"

Sam nodded slowly. "That means the first killing took place during the dark moon."

"Yeah." Dean grimaced. "And that's when the last killing is going to take place. Lucky number thirteen." He pointed out a date before pushing the book towards Sam. "So you still think we're not stuck in an episode of _Druids Gone Wild_, Sammy?"

Sam looked down at the date. "Halloween?"

"_Samhain_."

And damn if Dean didn't pronounce it correctly.

* * *

It was a small victory, somehow managing to one-up Sam's Zoroastrian theory with a _hangover_. It was all thanks to that Wiccan chick he'd screwed for a week a couple of years back in Ohio when Dad was working a poltergeist gig in Cleveland but it didn't do much for the headache pounding into the back of his skull, the one that wasn't going away no matter how much water he slammed whenever he could stomach the idea of swallowing something.

And it sure as hell didn't change the fact that his bright idea landed them in the microfiche room at the nearest library.

Sam had managed to charm the old librarian five minutes into the door with two blinks of his puppy dog eyes. Sadie Hawkins – or whatever the hell her name was – kept poking her head into the room, asking Sam if he needed anything. She'd piled so many different boxes next to Sam's elbow, copies of newspapers beginning on August 9th, that it was a goddamn miracle Gigantor was able to swivel in his chair without knocking them off the table.

The third victim, Elroy Vogler, was covered with all those Celtic things – knotwork so twisted it could give a _sober_ man a headache – but another one of Sam's Zoroastrian symbols was smack dab in the middle of the man's back. Even giving the artist who drew it some license, the symbol was a less elaborate version of the one found on the girl that morning. Sam had smirked when another variation of the symbol showed up a third time, smile going wide when the librarian slipped into the door and handed him a cup of coffee.

"It's our little secret," she said with a wink.

"Thank you, ma'am." Sam smiled back. Those goddamn puppy eyes made him look like a cub scout, his smile getting brighter when he copied the third symbol out of the newspaper article.

Watching Sam flirt with someone's grandmother sucked ass.

Dean shuffled out of the room to top off his Styrofoam cup of water at the drinking fountain, bumping into Sadie when she came out of the microfiche room and barely avoiding the woman's stern-lipped frown when he tried to walk back inside with half an inch of water still in his cup. The librarian pointed at the 'No Food or Drink Allowed' sign before her heels clipped down the hall away from him.

_Fuck me._

"What?" Sam demanded, sipping his coffee slowly as Dean eased back into his chair. "Jealous?"

"Of the little blue-haired old lady who wants to screw you behind the stacks?" Dean grimaced. "Don't flatter yourself, Sam."

There was a new article on the screen, dated August 31st. It was a little boy the fourth time around, a kid named Tommy Weatherspoon killed two days before during another waning moon, a kid who was sporting two missing front teeth along with all those Celtic symbols and something that _wasn't_ carved into his back when they found him drowned in a city pool. According to the autopsy results, there were burnt oats in Tommy's stomach.

That last detail was missing from the stack of articles they'd copied about Elroy Vogler, not one word anywhere about anything in his stomach. The woman before that wasn't even drowned but Rhonda Kenyon, the bright-eyed teenaged girl who was killed the week after Tommy, had wine laced with hemlock in her stomach along with a belly full of burnt oats and another symbol on her back that looked about as Celtic as a Zeppelin album cover.

Three hours later, Sam had managed to sucker enough coffee out of Sadie to raise the Titanic and their stacks of papers were organized into folders because Sam was just _that _anal-retentive – reams of research raising more questions than they answered. More recent victims had been found with brass cauldrons next to their bodies – cauldrons filled with burnt scraps of paper covered with more of that tree language Janey had gone on about back in Ohio and scribbled pictures of a guy with a huge set of antlers poking out from his head.

Sam sucked in a breath, looking a little green. "Jesus, Dean." He rubbed his eyes. "Whoever's been doing this has been adding a new element from that book, the one about the Lindow man, until they're doing the theorized ritual perfectly. Only that's not enough for our killers, so they start twisting other Celtic symbols and add them to the mix." Sam shook his head. "And the Cernunnos imagery? I don't even _want_ to know where that's going…" He took a deep swallow of his coffee. "It looks like they're building up to something one sacrifice at a time."

Janey had mentioned the 'Horned Lord' during his week-long Wiccan crash course back in Ohio. The horns were a fertility thing and, given the number of times they'd gone at it in front of her altar, Dean hadn't been inclined to disagree – not when her tongue was flicking along his pulse, making his hips quiver while she went on about the dude being turned into Satan by early Christians and sucking hard enough to make Dean groan. _Just like they stole all of our holy days_, she had whispered when his back arched.

"Maybe that's the reason for your demon symbols?" Dean countered. Sam was watching him like he'd suddenly grown two heads and the one talking was speaking in French. "I mean, kind of like saying 'screw you' to the people who took their god and made him the Devil."

"That's the stupidest theory you've come up with since the pixie dust in Tallahassee. Except..."

"You got any better ideas, Geek Boy?"

"Honestly?"

"Actually, that was your cue to start lying."

Sam laughed, a hard sound that rebounded through the room while his shoulders shook, but his eyes had that same look Dad got when the answer was right in front of him and he couldn't figure it out.

The same look Sam gave Dean every morning.

"I…" Sam shook his head sharply. "I don't." And Dean had learned the hard way what that really meant, the lengths that Sam would go when he was looking for answers. "None of this makes any sense," Sam continued, eyes suddenly going to the latest article up on the machine. "We've got two disparate symbologies but both of them are being used _consistently_ when you look at the overall pattern."

"And there's no obvious connection between any of the victims." Dean tapped his fingers on the table. "Not to mention that other dead guy."

Some kids had found him about month ago – a hot shot in the local pagan community who'd been criticized by just about everyone for coming forward to help the police. They found him burned inside a wicker man, stuck in the middle of some oak grove, and the thing had supposedly burned during a storm. The bigger mystery was why the thing had burned in the first place because it was the only thing that had burned in the whole damn place.

Not even the wooden plaque swinging off the limb of one the trees, covered in more of that Ogham stuff, had been touched by the fire – but the victim had to be identified by his teeth.

"Richard Poole?" Sam shuffled his stack of folders and pulled out the one with the dude's name on it. "Maybe _he's_ the connection?"

"How? He wasn't killed on the right day and he was burned to death."

"Yeah, but check this out." Sam pulled out an article and handed it to Dean. "Someone translated the Ogham on that plaque." Sam waited while Dean skimmed the article, coming to the paragraph that Sam had circled for emphasis and then highlighted just in case Dean wouldn't get the clue that it was important.

_Traitor._

Dean felt like he had swallowed the worm all over again but he handed the article back to Sam. "Was there an obit?"

"Richard Poole was survived by his daughter, Amanda," Sam read directly from the microfiche. "Some of the follow-up articles mentioned that she was a student at Philadelphia University. She shouldn't be that hard to find."

"She probably knows jack, Sam."

"Maybe." Sam's shoulders stiffened right along with his jaw. "But her father was killed for a reason and whoever did it had no problem telling the rest of the world why."

The little geek had a point.

* * *

It hadn't been easy to find Amanda Poole's phone number. Sam had used a few creative searches for her name that he could have done in his sleep but he had to cross-reference them with a secured student listing from the University that had required a little more finesse to crack – and goddamn Dean didn't help his concentration, channel surfing and singing along to every commercial he found.

It took a pillow to the head for Dean to finally get the message. "Screw you, Sammy," he snapped, grabbing his jacket in a huff and storming out of the motel room. Dean looked so pissed that Sam didn't expect him back until morning.

It was probably better for everyone that Dean wasn't making up stupid lyrics to the Nasonex commercial imitating Antonio Banderas' accent while Sam was trying to convince a girl whose father had been burned to death in a wicker man to talk to two strangers about it.

Sam stared at her phone number for a long time when he finally found it, trying to figure out what to say to her and tapping his fingers on the outside of his cell phone before taking a deep breath. He dialed the number, not even realizing that he was still holding his breath until a husky voice answered.

"Hello?"

"May I speak with Amanda Poole, please?"

"Speaking."

"My name is Sam Bickham, Ms. Poole," he said quietly, pitching his voice low. "I'm a reporter for _PanGaia_. It's a maga – "

"I know what _PanGaia_ is, Mr. Bickham." Amanda Poole didn't miss a beat. "You've got thirty seconds to convince me why I shouldn't be hanging up on you and slapping your magazine with a harassment lawsuit."

"Excuse me?"

"I spoke with your associate, Mr. Card, two weeks ago. He assured me that your magazine would respect my privacy." Her voice was sharp, with a tang underneath that Sam could hear in the pit of his own stomach. "Please," she added more softly. "I just want…to be left alone."

_No guts, no glory. Didn't I teach you anything, Sammy?_

It was always a bad thing when the voice inside his head started sounding like Dean.

"The magazine would like to write a memorial about your father." Sam forced out the words, tumbling over them so quickly they almost stopped up in his throat. "The way he died… His sacrifice shouldn't be forgotten, Ms. Poo – " He winced as a sharp whistle roared through his head, followed by the crash of the receiver slamming into his ear.

Maybe Dean and the singing bee could have handled it better.

"_That_ went well," a sarcastic voice observed from the doorway as Sam put down his cell. Dean was propped up against the doorjamb, a six-pack of beer underneath one arm, and he was carrying one of those three foot party subs from the grocery store. He loped into the room, letting the door close behind him.

"You're not hitting the bar?"

"Nope." Dean set the six-pack on the table between them, next to Sam's phone.

"What about chicks?"

"Little Sammy Potter swiped my Trojans and replaced them with his Hogwarts' textbooks." Dean chuckled, plastic ripping down the sub right before he pulled off a handful of the sandwich – lettuce spilling onto his lap. "The way I see it, you've got enough books over there to figure out if those symbols really are old time demon magic or not." He handed the sub to Sam and clicked the remote, wearing the biggest grin Sam had seen in weeks. "I've got a date with _Mothra vs. Godzilla_."

Sam jumped when his cell rang, the sub dropping to his lap, but Dean picked it up first. He flipped it open with a sharp flick of his wrist. "Yeah? Just a sec." If it was possible, Dean's grin got even wider as he handed Sam the phone. "It's for you, Mr. _Dick_ham."

"You're so freaking – " Sam bit back the retort as he snatched the phone, blood salty in his mouth.

_Dead…_

* * *

A/N

I cheated with the phases of the moon. When I checked a standard almanac, the "waning" phase is actually the corresponding phase of the moon for November 1, 2007 but I wanted the story to reflect the more mystical aspects of the "dark" phase so I modified it for the purposes of the story. In reality, the dark phase of the moon is November 8 or thereabouts this year. I also used a seven day schedule for the killings; even though moon phases aren't precisely seven days, it was close enough to suit the idea of the story – so for those of you expecting my usual authenticity in this regard, mea culpa. I did do my best. ;-P

The killing method used by the murderers comes from the book_The Life and Death of a Druid Prince_, based on the find of the Lindow Man. The book suggests that he was a willing sacrifice who was fed a burnt oat cake and given wine soured with hemlock before being ritually slain three ways – by being drowned to death while his throat was cut and his head was bashed in from behind – because there was no apparent sign of a struggle. The theory that the victim was a prince has come under scrutiny, given that leather preserved in the same type of peat moss where the Lindow Man was found lost most of its grainy qualities. Any scabs or rough skin on the man would have been lost the same way. Wow, I can't believe you're actually reading this… ;-P

Ogham is sometimes known as the "Celtic Tree Alphabet." I confess to taking some liberties with its use within the story. In reality, it seems to have been used in Northern Ireland – primarily on fifth and sixth century stones around the Irish Sea. There were also forms of Ogham found on relics in Scotland but most scholars believe it is associated more closely with Old Irish than any early forms of Scottish. There's a wealth of information out there about it, although some sources I would take with a serious grain of salt.

The wicker man is reputed to have been used as a method of Druidic sacrifice, according to Caesar's accounts of the Gallic Wars – with criminals and thieves being considered the preferred sacrifice because it 'pleased the gods.' There's no other evidence that the Druids of Gaul actually did this and most scholars think Caesar was simply trying to spread rumors about one of his enemies.

_PanGaia_ is a real magazine.


	3. Awake the Demons

**And the Air Shall Stand Red  
**

If it were up to Sam, they'd be halfway to New Orleans. But there was something going on in Philadelphia besides the rain – Winchester business with a side of ritual killings – and Dean wasn't leaving until they figured out why a girl covered with triskeles and triquetras had a Zoroastrian symbol carved into her back.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all the time if they were.

**Overall Rating**: M (Language)

**Overall Pairings**: Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC

**Miscellaneous**: Spoilers up to 3.04.

**Betas: ****emgrace** graciously provided feedback and help with grammar, pointing out situations where I needed more details. **hhhellcat** asked me all of the hard questions, keeping my plot focused and finding the holes when I was too close to the story to do so. **theemmer** provided encouragement and much support, regardless of how slowly I was writing this story. Special thanks to **embroiderama**, who kept me sane. The good parts are all them. The mistakes? Those are all me.

* * *

**Chapter Three: Awake the Demons**

_Awake the demons  
For the time is theirs_

Amanda Poole had agreed to meet them for breakfast in some trendy little café near the university. Just looking at the awning hanging over the door, with its alternating pattern of eggs and hens, was enough to make Dean's teeth ache – and that was before some red-haired chick with a perky bounce in her step chirped 'Good Morning' and pulled two menus out of the wire basket on the counter.

"Actually, we're meeting someone," Sam said, pulling out a smile just as chipper as the one they had received. "My name is Sam Bickham."

"Oh, yeah," the girl returned breathily, giving Sam the once-over. "You're meeting _her_." The way she said it made Sam's shoulders jerk before he caught himself. The hostess didn't even notice. "That girl whose dad burned up in that wicker thing," she added, leaning forward conspiratorially with another flash of teeth. "They used to come here together sometimes. Before…"

She made a gesture with the menus and started walking away. "He was…_weird_," the hostess added over her shoulder, giving Sam another grin. "Bet they figure out he was involved, you know? When the police are done. That he was an _accomplice_."

Sam smiled weakly back. The little bitch probably didn't even care that her voice was carrying as they followed her down the rows of tables, with their fake flowers and pitchers of ice water topped off with a slice of lemon. They passed a couple of chicks in funky sandals and long crinkly skirts but they ended up towards the back, at a little table set off by itself, and the hostess had shut up long before they got there.

She set the menus down on two empty plates and scuttled off.

"Ms. Poole?" Sam asked the woman sitting there, leaning forward with an outstretched hand as she rose to her feet.

"Mr. Bickham," she replied, standing to shake Sam's hand. The way they looked at each other, they could have been meeting for tea. Amanda Poole's voice was like whiskey, velvety and rough at the same time. She turned her eyes towards Dean. "And you would be?" she asked. One eyebrow rose when Dean sat down right across from her, cutting off Sam before he could even get his bony ass in the chair.

"Mr. Finn," Dean returned smoothly, giving her the best smile he could muster.

He must have done something right in a past life because Amanda Poole didn't look like a new age chick.

She looked younger than her voice made her sound – with perfectly manicured nails topped off with pink polish, a blue business suit that set off the highlights in her hair and high heels that were made for sex. If they'd met up in a bar, Dean would have her in the bathroom faster than she could think about saying 'please,' her skirt hiked up around her thighs and those heels digging into his –

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with us," Sam interrupted. "I know this hasn't been an easy time for you, Ms. Poole."

"It hasn't, Mr. Bickham." She looked tired, pushing one lock of hair behind her ear with a frown. Her long fingers drummed on the edge of the table but she didn't say anything until the waitress dropped off three cups of coffee in goddamn oversized mugs with flowers painted on them; Amanda just watched Sam without saying a word and something must have clicked because she picked up her mug in both hands and stared down into it. "But I don't understand why you want to talk about my father. Even the police…"

"He was a good man," Sam said matter-of-factly, using the same voice he pulled out every time he needed to earn someone's trust. "And he was killed trying to save people's lives. Why shouldn't_ PanGaia_ do a memorial for him?"

"Haven't you heard?" she asked softly. "He was _weird_." Amanda's eyes flickered towards the red-haired hostess at the front desk. "When I was in grade school, I used to lie about what I did on my summer vacations. How many kids went to festivals where people danced naked around bonfires under the full moon?" She shook her head sharply. "I left that life long before he died. Why would I want to go back to it now for a magazine," Amanda added slowly. She sipped out of her oversized mug. "But he _was_ a good man."

"And someone torched him for it." Dean's voice was sharper than he intended and her eyes narrowed. The toe of Sam's shoe cracked into Dean's shin the moment Amanda set her mug down on the table, fingers flexing around it. "I mean, for helping the police try to catch that Druid Killer," Dean added.

"That's the working theory, Mr. Finn." Her smile was a dismissal. "You've got an interesting angle for a memorial. Wouldn't you rather focus on his charity work and his environmental activism or the books that he's written instead of the fact that some druidic wanna-be burned him in a wicker man?" Amanda flattened her hand on the table in front of her.

"We care about all of that stuff." Dean took a swallow of his own coffee, grimacing – it even tasted trendy, with a sprinkle of cinnamon across the top that he didn't expect. "But the murder – "

"You actually haven't done any research on my father, have you?"

"Not beyond newspapers articles." Sam was returning her stare without even blinking and Amanda flinched when Sam put a comforting hand on her arm. "But that's why we're talking to you now."

"So which tabloid do you work for?" she demanded. Amanda's hands twitched, and she looked towards another table. "Or are you sick bastards who get off on the occult and this is the latest _story_ you came across while you were trawling the Internet?" Her shoulders were shaking but her flinty glare passed between both of them and she was reaching into her purse. "People are getting killed – probably by the same lunatic who murdered my father. Can you give me one reason not to call the police?"

Amanda was on her feet, cell phone flipped open with her finger crooked over a key.

"Why do you think the Druid Killer is a _wanna-be_?" Sam asked. It sure as hell wasn't the direction Dean would have been driving the conversation. The only link they might have had to the goddamn job was getting ready to walk the hell away – all because Sam couldn't keep his mouth from asking questions instead of giving the girl answers.

"The Ogham," she answered immediately. "But you haven't answered my question."

"The sign." Sam' voice was gentle. "Ogham is a Gaelic alphabet but the symbols were written so the message was in English." The secret was unraveling while Amanda Poole stared at him; Sam just needed enough time to keep working the string until the knot pulled apart. "Someone who had studied Ogham would have known that," he added. "But that still doesn't change the fact that the killer _thinks_ there is power in the rituals."

The cell phone clapped shut and Amanda's eyes widened, bright with the same glimmer they'd been seeing all of their lives when the dark was about to swallow up someone. "If you're serious about my father," she said, "There's a leather briefcase next to my chair." She shook her head sharply. "That's all I can do. Please don't try to contact me again." Amanda started walking down the aisle, heels clicking sharply – picking up speed the closer Amanda was to the front door. She didn't even look at them over her shoulder when she stepped outside.

"Son of a bitch, Sammy!"

"I know." Sam was reaching down for the briefcase. "She's scared shitless, Dean."

"Screw that. She just stiffed us for the goddamn coffee." Dean rolled his eyes. Sam already had the briefcase open, full of manila folders that rivaled his own stack back at the motel. "Jesus, you're getting off on this chick, aren't you? Did you cream your pants or something?" Sam wasn't even listening, handing Dean a creamer container.

Dean snorted, digging into his pocket for a couple bucks.

* * *

Dean had spent most of the drive back from _The Incredible Egg_ engaging in what passed for subtle innuendo about Sam whacking off with manila folders when he wasn't making fun about eating breakfast in a place filled with checkered tablecloths and painted roosters on the walls.

There was a McDonald's on the way back to the motel and Dean was working through his third bacon and sausage McGriddle while haphazardly spreading folders in front of him on the bed. Sam coughed hard and Dean looked at him, mouth half-open. "What?" Dean demanded.

"Don't get bacon bits all over the pictures, idiot!"

"They're just copies, dude." But Dean actually wiped his hand off on a napkin after popping the last of his breakfast into his mouth. He shook his head. "But I've got to admit, the chick came through for us."

"That's putting it mildly."

Amanda Poole had handed them the jackpot – a briefcase full of police reports for the first eight murders with high-quality scans of crime scene photos for each murder, investigative reports, interviews with the victims' families and her father's notes on each of the murders.

Sam reached over and picked up the police file for first victim, a woman named Rosalind Hill, and flipped to the picture of the symbol on her back. "Did you notice that the artist's renditions leave out certain details?" Sam asked, comparing it to the newspaper article. "There's a line of Latin around the right curve of the symbol and it's more elaborate in the section right along her spine."

"_Latin_?" Dean made a face as Sam nodded. "Well, _that _should make it easier to figure out what the hell that thing means given how much of a bust last night turned out to be." He grinned at Sam. "So there's your gig, college boy. I've got other things to do."

"Another Godzilla movie?"

"You wound me." Dean gestured towards the pile of folders they had compiled the day before. "I'm figuring that there's something in the police reports that we can use." He slurped on his coffee. "Remember that pentacle around the gateway? Or the Zoroastrian pattern on the floor back in Chicago? What if there's something here based on where the victims were found after they were killed?" Dean chuckled. "The way things are going, don't be surprised when something Sumerian shows up after we connect the dots."

"You will do _anything_ to get out of translating Latin." Sam shook his head, pulling out the pad of paper he'd been using for his notes, and began copying the phrase on the first victim's symbol.

"Dude, you're the one who wanted to translate _The Wizard of Oz_ into Latin because you thought it would be fun and then you convinced Dad to make me help you." Dean rolled his eyes, loping towards the bag he had left on the table. "I just wanted to pick up Catholic girls using their native tongue." Dean pulled out a regional map along with that morning's newspaper.

"Your Latin sucked, Dean. It still sucks."

"That's because Catholic girls speak Dean Winchester just like every other chick." Dean's cackle suddenly erupted through the motel room and he unfolded the map, looking at Sam over his shoulder while Dean taped one corner to the wall. "And my Latin gets the job done. Sent that last demon who crossed our path straight to Hell."

"With an _Italian_ accent."

"Girls dig accents." Sam could hear Dean's grin. "The next time you want to get into some babe's pants, slip a little Texas drawl into your voice and watch her clothes ease down past her hips faster than you can say longhorn."

"Who taught you this crap? It sure as hell wasn't Dad."

"There were some things I've figured out on my own," Dean said. "I'm like Yoda when it comes to chicks." He snorted. "Get it? Comes? And you should be taking notes on this stuff, Sammy. It could _come_ in useful, later." He chuckled. "Hell, you could publish this stuff."

Dean was still laughing at his own joke when Sam handed him Rosalind Hill's police folder and pulled Marcia Blessing's folder out of the pile. Sam coughed around the ache in his throat. "And give away all of your secrets to total strangers?" Sam kept his tone light. "Given how often I have to listen to your pearls of wisdom, I should get _some_ benefit out of the deal."

It wasn't what Sam meant to say but Dean's jaw clenched and there was no way in hell to take the words back. _Did you sell your soul for me, like Dad did for you?_ Dean drained his cup of coffee while Sam looked down at the second picture, his hand trembling while he painstakingly wrote down the second inscription.

There was a ragged grunt when Sam pulled Elroy's file out of the stack and Dean started going on again about whether or not manila folders were smooth or scratchy. All Sam could do was laugh right along with him.

* * *

By the time he was halfway through Walter Eddings' police file, Dean knew he should have gone for the Latin gig. Sam got to sit on his ass, occasionally turning to a page in his Latin/English dictionary when Sam wasn't staring at his notebook looking like he was constipated. Dean was stuck alternating the two pieces of plastic he'd taped over the map in some insane attempt to find the connections between eight strangers, looking up addresses on websites and doing more research than some idiot getting a doctorate.

Except it was more like playing Tic-Tac-Toe, using circles to show the approximate places the victims might have been kidnapped – _if_ the police had done their jobs and talked to the right people during their investigation – and an 'X' on every spot where a victim had been found. Adding the extra murder scene locations from the newspaper articles didn't do much but make Dean start to go cross-eyed.

And that morning's newspaper didn't help. It slid to the floor, fluttering open to the section on the most recent murder – just as useless as his stupid idea to find a connection between abduction locations and murder scenes; the goddamn family wasn't even letting the newspapers publicize the victim's name, which pretty much slammed the breaks on their most recent lead. How the hell could they find out anything if they didn't have a name?

Dean took another swallow of watery Coke – the last vestige of the junk food run that had passed for their lunch break – and looked down at his own scrawled notes. The only lead they _might_ be able to follow up on was declared dead by the cops and, for once, Dean didn't disagree. He sucked on his straw, trying to get the last of the soda out of his Megabuster 3000.

"Do you mind?" Sam muttered. He looked like he was getting ready to say more but he just started rubbing his eyes wearily. "I think we're completely screwed."

"So situation normal?"

"This is pretty fucked up, Dean. Even for us."

"No shit." Dean scrubbed at his cheek with his knuckles. "Beyond the way they're being murdered, I only found one connection between the victims. Apparently, two of them liked the same band. The Wylde Hunterz. Both victims were last seen at one of their shows." Sam had gone pale, even after Dean started spelling out the name. The Wild Hunt was dark magic, spirits and faeries and death running you down like a dog all rolled up into one. "I checked out the band's website," Dean added. "They're a goddamn cover band. People actually pay money to listen to these morons sing Hootie and the Blowfish."

"But the Wild Hunt is a common theme in various Celtic mythologies. Even the Bretons had a version of it…" Sam's voice dropped off and he shook his head. "And it's a death omen. Are sure it's not a lead?"

"Who the hell knows? I'm guessing any band that sings Hootie and spells wild like Theodore Logan didn't choose the name because of its association with mythological badasses." Dean shrugged his shoulders. "The cops couldn't find a connection beyond the band. The victims were kidnapped from two different shows – a little over a month from each other – and the shows weren't even in the same place." He picked up a picture of both of the victims that had been included in their police profiles. "Elroy Vogler was originally from Missouri. Used to work in farms before he came here to work in an iron factory. Jade Wells was a high school kid who snuck into the bar with her fake ID."

"But the band – "

"The cops agreed with you, Sam." Dean began tapping out a rhythm on his thighs. "So they investigated the band, their manager and anyone who worked at the clubs. No connection between the employees and the victims. No connection between the band members and the victims. And everyone associated with the band had alibis. The manager wasn't even in town when the kidnappings took place. According to newspaper articles, it was classified as a cold lead after Georgette Newton, the tenth victim, was found."

Sam still didn't look convinced.

"I guess we can start calling around tomorrow to see if any of the other victims have sucky taste in music." Dean returned Sam's stare. "But the last victim's family won't even let her name get published in the newspapers and I know Georgette wasn't at any bar when she was kidnapped." Sam's mouth pursed. "She was four, Sam."

"You get a chance to read Richard Poole's notes?" Sam asked finally.

"I skimmed them but he knew that stuff on the victim's spines weren't Celtic. He didn't know what they meant and there were some names scribbled next to some of them." Dean sucked in a breath. "Just first names – Aggie, Matthew, Miriam, Spiritfox. I'm guessing they were people he thought _might_ know what they were. And there was one weird thing that never made it to the newspapers."

"One weird thing?" Sam snorted.

"Weirder than most. Every single one of the victims had that tree language scratched over their heart – just one of the symbols. Poole was circling them, like they were more important than the other Celtic stuff."

"Maybe Amanda would know about those names?" Sam tapped his pencil against his lip.

"That's one call I'm not going to make," Dean retorted. "You heard the little lady's parting words." _There's a leather briefcase next to my chair. That's all I can do._ "I don't think she's going to be real receptive to a second conversation and I'm pretty sure she gave you all the manila folders that her father left her."

"But you're pretty certain he was focusing on the Celtic stuff?" Sam was staring down at his notebook, face white. "Because of the symbols being left on the victims' chests? Maybe you should translate them."

"Like I said, they were important enough for him to circle. But translations are your department, Geek Boy."

"I wish they weren't." Sam shook his head sharply. "I wasn't kidding when I said this was fucked up." He slammed his dictionary closed. "Why would Poole call attention to the Ogham if he didn't think it was important? Because those symbols are demonic in origin, Dean."

"Old time demon magic, huh?"

"Behold, the moon is hiding in the clouds," Sam read slowly, his voice pitched low – but that couldn't hide the way it wavered. "The night is silent, a world in fear. A million days since he was buried in the sea. He will rise again, his demon spirit will be free."

Dean whistled. "Think it's a ritual?"

"Sure sounds like one to me and that's just the first three inscriptions. Anything that mentions the word ascension outside of a _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ episode and _capitalizes_ it isn't exactly heralding world peace." Sam clutched his fingers in his hair, eyes going wide as he looked at Dean. "I couldn't find anything in Dad's journal or in any of our books that even mention something like it."

"Think Bobby could help?"

"Maybe. He has a bigger library." Sam frowned. "But I haven't tried any of my online resources – "

"Couldn't hurt to fax what you've got to him. There's a Kinko's on the way to Hooters." Dean waited for the obligatory crack about beer and hot wings and chicks in tight t-shirts not fixing all of their problems but Sam was still staring at his notebook. "I'll take you out to breakfast at that trendy little egg place just to see if Princess shows up tomorrow morning, and you can ask her questions about those peoples' names in her dad's notes," Dean added. "Hell, I'll run interference when she goes after you in high heels."

Sam's mouth twisted into a half-smile. "I'd just feel better if we had more information from the police files."

"Well, it'd keep me from calling grieving people and asking them if their dearly departed liked listening to Hootie." Dean stood up, jamming his hands in his pockets. "I mean, we know the investigative team's precinct thanks to Amanda Poole and her magic briefcase." He grinned. "I'm guessing there's a hot little policewoman out there who speaks Dean Winchester."

"Are you _serious_?" Sam demanded.

But Sam didn't even wait for Dean to nod before returning his grin, stretching into a stand and reaching for the jacket he'd thrown over his headboard.

* * *

A/N

The Wild Hunt is a fairly common motif in Northern European mythology, and includes elements of dogs, men and storms – essentially, a wild group that hunts the countryside. It was often considered an omen of war or death for those who spotted it. I used it in the story as that kind of omen and deliberately used it three times, as triads were also fairly common in the various Celtic cultures. There's more out there on the Wild Hunt than I could ever write here. ;-P

Theodore Logan is…Ted from "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure."


	4. No Eyes Shall Ever See Again

**And the Air Shall Stand Red **

If it were up to Sam, they'd be halfway to New Orleans. But there was something going on in Philadelphia besides the rain – Winchester business with a side of ritual killings – and Dean wasn't leaving until they figured out why a girl covered with triskeles and triquetras had a Zoroastrian symbol carved into her back.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all the time if they were.

**Overall Rating**: M (Language, Mild Gore, Adult Themes)

**Overall Pairings**: Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC

**Miscellaneous**: Spoilers up to 3.04.

**Betas: ****emgrace** graciously provided feedback and help with grammar, pointing out situations where I needed more details. **hhhellcat** asked me all of the hard questions, keeping my plot focused and finding the holes when I was too close to the story to do so. **theemmer** provided encouragement and much support, regardless of how slowly I was writing this story. Special thanks to **embroiderama**, who kept me sane. The good parts are all them. The mistakes? Those are all me.

* * *

**Chapter Four: No Eyes Shall Ever See Again**

_And their dance for the unholy arrival  
As the warlord appears in crystal views,  
No eyes shall ever see again._

Dean had a way of making bad ideas sound like the world's best plan after four beers and two baskets of hot wings. That would have been bad enough but Dean's plans always sounded simple. Last night he had Sam believing that they could just waltz into the investigating team's precinct pretending to be reporters and some girl in the records room would open up the doors and let Sam rifle through the file cabinets while Dean leaned over her desk making small talk.

Dean was so enthusiastic about the whole damn thing that Sam didn't have the heart to tell him that their faces were probably plastered all over some wall of FBI suspects in a back room – hell, one look at their police records and someone would be clapping handcuffs on Dean's wrist before he realized it wasn't a _chick_ in a police uniform.

Sam went along with it, anyway. Until they had real information about the more recent crime scenes, there wasn't much that they could investigate on foot. And it kept Dean from making more jokes about manila folders.

"This freaking blows," Dean muttered, tugging at his collar. "Whose idea was this anyway?"

"Yours." Sam couldn't keep from grinning.

"I'm pretty sure my plan to score intel didn't include wearing goddamn granny glasses." Dean glared at Sam, the sprinkling rain dripping off the cheap reading glasses they had picked up at Wal-Mart. He rolled his eyes. "Who the hell is going to go for a dude in glasses? Especially after what you've done to my hair!"

"I haven't done anything to your hair."

"It's _raining_."

It hadn't stopped raining since they hit Philadelphia three days ago. According to the newspapers, it had been raining for weeks – usually a slow drizzle interspersed with larger thunderstorms. Sam had tried correlating weather patterns to the murders and moon phases, setting up his copy of Ash's wonder program to do the job before going to breakfast.

"That's what your umbrella is for, doofus." Sam's umbrella was slung over his shoulder, just high enough to cover his head without interfering with his peripheral vision.

Dean snorted. "And look even more like a dork?" He gestured towards Sam's old _Highlander_ umbrella. "You've been carrying that thing around since junior high. Duncan MacLeod just wasn't that cool, man." His eyes lit up.

"At least we don't look like fugitives."

That was an understatement.

Even though he refused to use his umbrella, Dean was wearing a suit while carrying around a briefcase for the records they were hoping to snag from some cute policewoman. Dean was sober – and still completely adamant that he was going to flirt Sam's way into the records room as soon as they walked through the front door of the precinct. Dean looked more like a stockbroker than a reporter – especially when the shock of lightning through the sky brought Dean's umbrella up and the thunder threatened them with another storm.

"We look like white collar criminals," Dean observed, catching their image in a passing window. "And why did we have to leave the car at that goddamn shopping center?"

"It's not exactly inconspicuous."

"That's the point, isn't it?" Dean smirked, glancing at Sam as they turned the corner. He was going to say something more but there was a group of multi-colored umbrellas milling around a raised podium in front of the precinct. "Must still have some of that rabbit foot's mojo." Dean began picking up speed, whipping another over his shoulder. "Come on, Sam. You can't buy a distraction like this," Dean hissed.

Maybe Dean was right.

There was a thumping noise coming out of a speaker as a middle-aged woman wearing a green suit tapped on the podium's microphone. She wasn't able to say anything before a voice from the crowd snapped, "Detective Valdez! Do the police have _any_ leads?" The voice was scornful. "You do realize that the Druid Killer is going to strike next on Halloween?"

Detective Valdez's lips stretched into a thin line and she took a deep breath into the microphone, hands flexing into fists at her side; her frustration only emphasized the circles underneath her eyes. Sam gave Dean a small nod and they moved to the back of the crowd, Sam pulling out a pen and notepad while Dean smiled down at the petite brunette that he "accidentally" bumped into. Sam rolled his eyes when Dean's gaze flickered down to the woman's rear-end and he shot Sam a grin.

"We have a team working twenty four hours a day," the detective said. There was a murmur from the crowd and her eyes darkened as the rain started falling harder. "We've brought in FBI analysts to assist in reviewing the evidence and there's another occult expert on the team."

"Who?" It was the brunette standing next to Dean, her face pinched into a scowl.

The detective scanned the crowd. "You know I can't divulge that information, Ms. Robinson," she said softly. "We're not endangering another citizen after Richard Poole."

"It was God's justice," Ms. Robinson murmured, just low enough for Dean to raise an eyebrow in Sam's direction. She raised her voice. "How many other innocent victims will be sacrificed to Samhain before you do something, Detective Valdez?" The woman touched the simple silver cross around her throat.

The way she pronounced made the hair on Sam's neck rise. _Samhane_. She said it with authority, like she could quote every single pamphlet out there talking about "Good Ol' Sam," the Celtic "god of the dead." Conservative idiots pulled out the "God of the Dead" myth every Halloween.

"What about the symbols on the victims' backs?" Sam's eyes widened. Dean pushed his glasses back up his nose as he asked the question. "The circular ones on the spine that aren't of Celtic origin," Dean added.

"We're…" Detective Valdez narrowed her eyes. "We're following up on that lead as well." Her voice was soft and she gestured to her right, an aide scuttling backwards into the building. Dean shot Sam a triumphant grin when another reporter asked a follow-up question and the detective's sharp-eyed gaze moved to someone else.

The brunette frowned, fingering her cross once more, and turned her back on them.

"We should go," Dean whispered. "We're just wasting time at this freak show. The police aren't going to say jack."

"But the detective just marked you." Sam leaned in close so that only Dean could hear him. "If we leave before the press conference is over, we'll have a tail." Sam frowned. "We'll be lucky if we don't get one, period. Why couldn't you have kept your mouth shut?"

"We had to know they're at least following up on all of the goddamn clues. And now they've brought in the Feds. Given the type of case this is?" Dean's voice was little more than a hiss they moved slowly to the periphery of the crowd. "I wouldn't be surprised if you-know-who was around here somewhere." Detective Valdez started watching them again despite the questions pouring forth from other reporters in the crowd demanding to know more about Dean's question. "I'm guessing the press assumed those other symbols were Celtic," Dean added softly. "Give how many of the others were."

The detective did her best to answer questions without giving too much away but the number of cell phones flipping open after Detective Valdez took the last question and the crowd dispersing in an excited murmur was a good clue that she'd said more during the conference than the press had expected.

Sam and Dean blended into the crowd's mass exodus, walking quickly and turning down the alley they'd scoped behind the precinct before breakfast. They ran straight for the dumpster where they'd hidden a duffel bag with a change of clothes for each of them. Sam closed his umbrella carefully, frowning when Dean threw his into the dumpster. "Think they sent a tail," Sam asked, shucking out of his clothes while Dean opened the duffel.

"You worry too much, Sammy. They're cops, man. And all I did was ask a simple question. Those reporters just didn't do their research" They changed in record time, Dean dropping the glasses into the dumpster with another grin at Sam. "But we're back at square one," Dean added. He might have said more, some overenthusiastic tirade about how Sam was the geek so he was going to be the one looking like a dork the next time they went undercover, but sharp footsteps started walking briskly down the alley towards them.

One day, Dean would stop underestimating the police.

They were already crouching as far back as they could behind the dumpster when a slight figure, wearing a long trench coat and dark sunglasses, came into view. Her hair was tucked up underneath a large scarf and she was carrying a leather briefcase, one long fingered hand curling around the handle. Sam held his breath when she stopped, his legs cramping against cold metal while he watched her pull a cell phone out of her coat pocket and flip it open with a snap.

She dialed a number with her thumb and his pocket started vibrating.

* * *

The only thing funnier than Sam's face when his pants started twitching, a tinny staccato beat against the side of the dumpster, was the 'oh' of surprise the woman's mouth made when she whipped her head in their direction. Her sunglasses clattered to the ground, revealing an expression that matched Sam's wide-eyed stare.

Instinct kept Dean from laughing, too many years spent holding his breath while the gruff voice in his head reminded him that even one misplaced breath could give away their position, but Sam slipped out from between the wet wall and the cold blue metal with a nervous laugh. "Ms – " Sam coughed. "Ms. Poole…" He bent down and picked up her sunglasses, handing them to her. Her cell phone trembled in her hand. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Sam always was a sucker for the whole damsel in distress gig.

"I'm fine," she answered. And it was like watching a curtain drop, the way Amanda's eyes hardened. "Are _you_ all right? You don't seem like the type to be hiding behind a dumpster wearing an inside-out hoodie." She closed in on herself faster than she slapped the top back down on her cell phone, slipping the phone into her coat pocket. The ghost of a smile crossed her face when her eyes met Sam's.

She sure as hell wasn't acting like some girl who was scared shitless.

"That's how Sam trolls for chicks." Dean grinned.

Sam's mouth twisted into a frown that passed by just as quickly as Amanda Poole's smile.

"I'm fine," Sam returned lightly as she gently took the sunglasses from his hand. "I'm a little confused, though. _You_ don't seem like the type to be skulking down an alley wearing sunglasses." She was one cool customer. Amanda didn't even blink, sliding her sunglasses into another pocket of her trench coat. "But that still doesn't explain why you were calling me in the first place," Sam added.

"Cut her some slack, Sam." Dean caught a glimpse of the brown boots slinking out from underneath the hem of the trench coat. Even the chick's goddamn boots had high heels. "She makes one _hell_ of a rainy day fashion statement."

"I was trying to avoid the press conference." Her voice was cool but she glanced over her shoulder, one worry line puckering between her eyes, before looking right back at Sam. "My father's murder is old news but I'm still fair game if they catch me on the sidewalk. I'd rather not spend the entire morning saying 'no comment' – not with the promise of riveting conversation near a garbage dumpster." She smoothed a wrinkle down the front of her coat with another small smile. "There was something that I needed to retrieve for you, Mr. Bickham."

"I thought you were out of this." Sam made it sound like it wasn't an accusation, even with both of them standing stiffly across from each other. His eyes focused on the leather briefcase that she held close to her side, her hand clutched around the handle like it was a lifeline. "That you didn't want me to contact you anymore about your father."

"I…" Her eyes softened but any answer she was planning to give was cut off by the loud growl that erupted from Dean's stomach.

"Look, Princess, you and Sammy can continue this little heart-to-heart until you're blue in the face just so long as I get some food. I'm cranky when I miss lunch." Dean frowned. "And I'm not sure any of us should be hanging around in this alley any longer than we have to."

Sam and Amanda nodded and Dean grinned back at both of them.

He managed to keep his grin intact while they scuttled down the alley, leaving in the opposite direction that they entered. In retrospect, Dean probably should have kept his mouth shut – suffering through the conversation – because the look on her face when they finally reached his car made his teeth itch. And her idea of a hamburger joint came complete with red vinyl seats and cheesy outfits from the fifties.

Their waitress' nametag read 'Babs' and she sat down next to Amanda like she belonged there, making some dumb joke about how even the salad at the Red Rocket Diner was chock full of grease and calories. Sam, cultural retard that he was, placed his order without even cracking open the menu and he went slack-jawed when Dean ordered the Diner Double.

It was worse than the frigging breakfast place. Just when Sam looked like he was going to say something, some moron in a waiter's outfit started leading the entire diner in a birthday song – forcing the poor birthday girl to do the Twist while Babs brought them their drinks. Amanda sipped delicately on her red straw while Sam leaned back against the vinyl.

"Are…" Sam's voice was soft and he waited for her to make eye contact. "Are you in trouble, Ms. Poole?"

"No." She brought her hands before her on the table, interlacing her fingers. Amanda's fingers twitched. She turned her eyes to follow the raindrops sliding down the window, her jaw clenched. "I'm not. It's just – "

Babs suddenly appeared at their side, three platters of food balanced precariously on her arms. The waitress plopped down the biggest damn hamburger Dean had ever seen right in front of him, the plate overflowing with fries. Dean wasn't even certain that he'd be able to get the whole damn thing into his mouth. "Can I get some chili for my fries, sweetheart?" He winked at her.

"Your wish is my command, sugar," Babs replied with a wink of her own.

Dean watched her ass sway as she walked away from their table, wondering if her break was coming anytime soon because there was something about the way her hips moved –

Sam nudged him sharply with a bony elbow and gestured towards Amanda with his head. She was still looking out the window. Dean frowned and rolled his eyes. Sometimes, goddamn Sam was like a frigging disease. The whole damsel in distress thing was starting to rub off on him, especially when he couldn't eat his burger without watching the shadow of raindrops slide down Amanda Poole's face.

"Your research really was _sorely_ lacking when it came to my father," Amanda said sharply. The skin tightened around her eyes when she picked up her fork, pushing the lettuce across her plate. "It wouldn't have been that hard to find all those naked pictures from the pagan retreats my father ran twenty years ago and his essay about legalizing marijuana is legendary." She frowned. "I just don't understand why…"

Amanda Poole just sat there with her shoulders shaking, daring Sam to say something with the glimmer in her eyes.

"We just want to help," Sam replied. He leaned forward to touch her arm just as Dean touched down on Sam's shin with his boot heel, shoving some French fries into his mouth when Sam whipped his head around to glare at him. "What the hell! She's not stupid, Dean."

"We did screw up by not looking for those naked pictures, Sam." Dean grinned. "There might have been chicks in them."

"Jesus!"

"No, it's fine." Amanda picked up one of the fried chicken pieces in her salad and dunked it into the ranch dressing she asked for on the side. "You were vouched for, Mr. Bickham." Her fists clenched in front of her. "Do you have any idea what it's like being asked to do something because your father's best friend had a dream? I sound like a lunatic. How can a dream even help me…" Amanda's voice trailed off.

Sam glanced at him, both of them avoiding the obvious question.

"_Vouched_ for?" Dean managed, taking door number two. Sam made a face when the words came out muffled around a mouthful of his burger. Dean set it back down on his plate and swallowed. "That's a damn peculiar way of putting it, Princess," he added.

"_I've_ been peculiar lately." Amanda rubbed her eyes, her shoulders slumping, before smiling weakly at Sam. "One phone call from a shaman telling me he dreamed about the shaggy bear bringing down the morning stag if the fledgling left her nest had me calling in a favor for two strangers." Amanda brushed the handle of the briefcase nestled between her body and the wall. "I skipped out on my marketing class to get you this. I _never_ miss class."

"Got to be a first time for everything." It was Sam's turn to jab a heel on the top of Dean's foot as soon as the words left his mouth.

She gave a shrill laugh, head shaking like the joke was on her, and a steady beep trilled up from her jacket. Amanda pulled out a something that looked like Cassie's old personal planner and tapped on the screen twice with one of those plastic pen-looking things, sliding out of the booth with a frown. "I have a feeling that I'll be in touch, Mr. Bickham," Amanda said, pulling on her coat quickly. "But…I'm late for another appointment."

Amanda Poole gave what might have passed for a polite nod when she finished buttoning up her coat before turning on her heel and walking out of the diner. She stopped to speak with Babs before stepping back out into the rain.

Sam's breath came out in a huff. "Why would a shaman…" His voice trailed off and he stood up, reaching across the seat of the booth to grab the briefcase she had left behind. It was identical to the one Amanda had given them the day before. "So now we've got a shaman helping us solve a case with druids and demons in it." He pursed his lips. "And what was up with the whole shaggy bear thing?" Sam added.

"Shamans always sound like freaking fortune cookies." Dean's voice was mild as he sipped on his shake. "The shaggy bear will bring down the morning stag if the fledgling leaves her nest…between the sheets." He grinned.

"Can't you be serious about this for thirty seconds?" Sam's eyes narrowed and he pushed Amanda's half-eaten salad out of the way to open the briefcase.

Dean snorted. "I'm guessing you're the shaggy bear, what with those emo bangs of yours and the fact that you're taller than a sasquatch." Sam glared at him over the briefcase's open lid. "Was it my imagination or are you and the little lady sharing _moments_?" Dean asked.

"The only thing we're sharing is the certainty that you're an idiot."

"And yearning looks into your puppy dog eyes." Dean inclined his head. "More manila folders? That'll keep you between the _sheets_ for the rest of the afternoon," Dean said, grin going wider when Sam glared at him.

He was going to say more but Babs walked up and set a small bowl of chili next to his hand and it was only polite to turn and watch her walk away, given how hard she was swaying her hips to get his attention – until Amanda Poole passed by their window, pulling her scarf up over her head.

"Son of a bitch, Sam!"

"What?"

"She did it _again_."

* * *

There wasn't much that could keep Dean from a tirade once he got started. Kansas was blasting from the radio the moment Dean turned the key in the ignition and he was yelling loud enough to be heard over the music – not even remembering the stack of manila folders tucked into the briefcase that Amanda had left behind at the diner. Hell, Dean was so pissed when he realized Amanda had left without paying for her lunch that he stopped flirting with 'Babs' and started bellowing something about how sneaky college girls afforded their trendy clothes right in the middle of the diner.

They were lucky the manager hadn't kicked them out when mothers began covering their kids' ears.

And there was no way in hell Sam was going to mention that he'd pay Amanda Poole to walk out on the check again. Any girl who kept him off the receiving end of stupid jokes where Sam was using office supplies instead of blow-up dolls to "let off a little steam" could buy herself another scarf with Sam Winchester's compliments.

Dean was still complaining about being tricked by a chick wearing a _scarf _when the door to their room swung open. Dean took the briefcase while Sam made a beeline for his laptop, typing in his password before the latch on the door had time to fully close. The pattern recognition program had finished its run based on the last set of parameters that Sam had input into it. If there was a connection between the weather and the moon phases, Ash hadn't figured out a way to find it before that yellow-eyed bastard burned down the Roadhouse.

"I've got nothing," Sam said. "You?"

Dean snapped open both locks on the briefcase, pulling out the first folder on top of the pile. "Got something." He whistled. "The police file for that damn girl's father, for starters." He started rifling through the rest of them. "Updates to the files we already have and the rest of the files we don't."

"How did she manage that?" Sam flipped between screens, pulling up his e-mail program.

"She did say something about calling in a favor." Dean snorted, piling the folders next to him on the bed. "Maybe she actually shucked out a couple of bucks and bought someone lunch from the value menu at Wendy's."

"I did get something from Bobby." Sam's eyes widened as he clicked on the message. There were three attachments. "And he encrypted everything. That's usually not a good sign."

Dean didn't say anything – his head was already bent over an open folder with Richard Poole's name on the tab – but he handed Sam the police file for the ninth victim, Patrick Bale. Sam pulled out one of the crime scene photos, a close-up of the symbol on the victim's back, and he suddenly wished that he hadn't eaten that spicy pork pulled sandwich for lunch. Whoever – _whatever_ – had carved the symbol onto the man's back had used portions of his exposed spinal column as part of the design.

It was the most intricate version of the symbol Sam had seen. The ones coming were probably going to be worse.

The whole damn case was throwing Sam off-kilter; he'd seen gorier scenes with younger victims, had killed an innocent girl to keep her curse from spreading to other innocent people with just a bite, and it probably would have been different if the damn thing made some kind of sense. Even Dad would be having a problem, the man who could put patterns together without Ash's fancy computer program or Dean's duct tape – what with the shaman and every other surprise they hadn't discovered yet in Amanda Poole's files.

They weren't even close to knowing what the hell was going on.

And they were no closer to New Orleans. Ruby had told Sam to be there by the second of November. Sam guessed she had another enigmatic clue to slap down just so that he could stumble across another piece of a puzzle that made no sense. She hadn't even hinted at what she was going to make him do to save Dean.

He probably shouldn't have backed down with the trip to New Orleans but Sam was still a goddamn Winchester – and there was a Latin inscription interwoven into the symbol on Patrick Bale's back.

Sam copied neatly underneath the last line from Tony Paulson's back.

He lost himself in the words and the symbols, three more victims with less skin and more spine showing, before handing the last picture weakly back to Dean. Dean stared hard at it and then back to the map on the wall, with its pieces of plastic looking like an insane asylum's version of a children's game.

At least the words made sense; could be put into patterns that Sam recognized, no matter how each translated line made the pit in his stomach open up a little wider.

Especially when he compared it to the documents that Bobby had sent them. There might be variations in the text but those could be accounted for, just a translator's personal nuance, and the only difference between the two was that Sam's was missing a line.

The last victim.

Sam double-checked his translation against Bobby's email three times, sucking in a breath. "Holy shit," he whispered, staring at the monitor.

The translation of the ritual was nothing compared to the two descriptions of its method. One was from a scanned text that looked so old the real thing would probably break if you breathed on it too hard, its pages embossed with the most elaborate version of the sigil that had been carved into the twelfth victim. Just looking at Lisa Hayes' wedding portrait in her file had been enough, another pretty blonde with blue eyes that they were too late to save.

Dean was flipping pages in Dad's old Ogham reference – the only thing of any value was the translation of the letters themselves, as far as Dad was concerned – and writing out what were probably translations of his own in the chicken scratch that passed for Dean's handwriting when he wasn't chewing on the end of his pen.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" He didn't look up from his book.

"Did Dad ever mention anything to you about a ritual called _Daemon Incarnatus Carnis Ori_?" Sam could barely get out the words, breath kept slow in time to the pencil he was flipping through his fingers.

"Why would Dad bring up a ritual about…demon meat? He never really even _talked_ about demons until…" He stopped chewing on his pen. "Wait a minute. _Ori_. Doesn't that mean 'to rise' or something?" Dean started shaking his head when Sam didn't answer. "So yesterday you said this ritual talked about ascension-with-a-capital-A. And that everything was being done to increase the power of each ritual killing." He frowned. "We're screwed."

"Oh, you haven't heard the half of it."

"I'm guessing a ritual that mentions demons, meat and rising isn't about sparkly unicorns and fucking rainbows."

"It roughly translates as 'the risen incarnation of the demon into flesh,' Dean." The pencil snapped, one sharp edge between his thumb and index finger. "What we're talking about is a demon that won't have to rely on a human host. The ritual gives the damn thing its _own_ flesh and the thought of that scares Bobby so much that he's calling some friends in case they need to get here."

"You mean 'in case those Winchester boys fuck up _again_' and let a demon _ascend_." Dean leaned forward on his knees, rubbing his eyes with his hands. "It's bad enough everyone thinks we screwed up and opened that goddamn gate." His mouth was a thin line. "How do we stop this, Sam? All we really know is that another person's going to die."

"Two," Sam answered. His tongue was numb.

"Two?"

"There's the _Calix_. That's the thirteenth victim. According to the ritual, the Calix has to be male. And then there's the _Mater_, who is always a woman." Dean's eyes went wide as they stared at each other. "The Calix is the demon's host. He's marked by the Symbol of the Flesh – that thing we've seen getting carved more elaborately into every victim's back as the ritual progresses – using the blood of the Mater."

"I don't like where this is going Sam."

"You shouldn't. The blood is collected using a ritual wand called the _virga_. It's used during the last segment of the ritual to pierce the Mater's maidenhead. Once the blood is collected, the priest performing the ritual uses it to carve the Symbol of the Flesh onto the Calix's back – mixing his blood with that of the Mater's." Sam swallowed. "When's he's done, the demon possesses the Calix – "

"Maidenhead?" Dean interrupted, mouth twitching. "So the Mater is a virgin?" He whistled low when Sam nodded. "But demons can possess humans without all that mumbo jumbo. What's the point?"

"The point is that the ritual lets the demon impregnate the Mater with _itself_. It sucks out the life force of the Calix to speed gestation."

"But a virgin?"

"It's sacred blood, Dean." And damn if Sam didn't hear his father's voice. _There's water, there's blood and there's __Winchester__ blood. Don't you boys forget that._ He sucked in a breath. "The Mater dies when the demon pushes its way out of her. Basically, she gets cracked open because it's still _growing_." Long fingers tapped on the table in front of him. "And we've got a demon walking around fully-formed in its own body."

"Can a demon like that even _be_ exorcised?" Dean frowned. "I guess there's the Colt."

"Bobby thinks the Celtic trappings are just a smokescreen, given the time of year. I mean, the ritual does require thirteen sacrifices, with the last occurring on All Hallow's Eve but all that's important is that the sacrifices are marked with that symbol."

"I'm…not so sure the Celtic stuff was just a smokescreen." Dean scratched underneath his ear, staring at the wall.

"What do you mean?"

"Well…" Dean's voice trailed off. "I've been doing more digging into that tree language and I translated those symbols on the chests of the first nine victims. When you put them together in chronological order, they form a word."

"A _real_ word?"

"Don't make me come over there and smack you, Sam." And Dean was frowning. "Stagheart." Dean's eyes were hard when they finally flickered in Sam's direction. "Don't you remember what Princess said? That the shaggy bear would overcome the morning stag?"

"And you're the one always going on about shamans not making any sense."

"The cops have been hiding a lot of stuff from the press. The newspapers never even mentioned that there was something written in that Gaelic tree scratch around the twelfth victim. They found her face down in a fountain, right? Well, there was a message written on the stone of the fountain in her blood. It was about the Horned Lord, Savan, rising on the day when the veil between the worlds is thin."

"Dean, you just paraphrased those idiots who think that Samhain is some kind of old Celtic god instead of one of their holy days. And the whole veil between the worlds thing is Wicca 101."

"Maybe." Dean didn't sound convinced; just as stubborn as any goddamn Winchester, arms held tight across his chest as he stared at the close-up of the last victim's back. "Still doesn't change the fact that we don't have any idea who is going to be kidnapped – only that some poor guy's getting nabbed during the next three days. And we've got _jack_ about where the last sacrifice is going down."

Dean was suddenly on his feet, pulling down the piece of plastic that marked where the victims were found and began connecting the dots on the sheet with the disappearances. "Son of a bitch," he said softly, placing the picture side by side with the plastic. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"It's the…" Sam swallowed. Dean's pen had filled in most of the blanks, the symbol matching the design on Lisa Hayes' spinal column. Only one point was missing. "You still think it's druids? That's a Zoroastrian magical symbol they've constructed throughout the greater metropolitan area." Sam was on his feet, looking more closely at the plastic, gesturing towards the only open spot in the pattern. "The next victim should be coming from here."

"So we're looking for a needle in a sixteen block radius? That evens the odds."

"Are there any connections between the new victims?"

Dean shook his head. "Nope. And I cross-referenced the new information for the older victims, too. The only connection between two of them was that goddamn band but since those Celtic trappings weren't _real_…" Dean's breath came out in a huff and his eyes looked liked Dad's when Sam had just said something stupid.

_When things look obvious, Sam, they're usually obvious for a reason. It's either because it's a trap or because it's the truth. And there's only one way to figure out whether you're right or whether you're wrong._

Sam sighed, turning his back on Dean and bringing up the website in his 'Favorites' before his ass had even hit the seat of the chair. Three metal head rejects grinned up at him, the Wylde Hunterz logo a splash of color at the top of the page. "There's a show tomorrow night," Sam said, looking at Dean. He flipped to Mapquest and copied in the address of the club, zooming out from the map until it was similar in size to the map on the wall. "Son of a bitch," Sam said, echoing Dean's comment with widened eyes.

"Guess you and I are going out tomorrow night to score some brews and listen to some Hootie," Dean returned laconically. He made it sound like a death sentence but Sam had to smile in spite of everything, remembering a blonde-haired girl who used to love singing Hootie in the shower.

"Guess we – " Sam's cell began vibrating in his pocket. "That's probably Bobby," he said. "Figuring out if he needs to call in the cavalry." Sam flipped open the phone. "Hello?"

"Mr. Bickham?"

"Ms. Poole?" Dean's mouth twisted when Sam mentioned her name. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Sam added.

"The Elders would like to offer their…assistance." She couldn't make it sound more obscure if she had tried and Dean would have been laughing his ass off if he'd heard how serious the whole thing was, complete with its capital E – if he hadn't been muttering to himself about her next plan to stiff them on another check. "Some of my father's friends are meeting tomorrow night and Lester said that I needed to bring the shaggy bear with me," Amanda said.

"Why would the _Elders_ want to see me?" Sam asked.

"Fuck no, Sam. We're not getting suckered into meeting her a third time," Dean hissed. "We're not Amanda Poole's ticket to another free lunch!"

Sam ignored him.

"There are questions I've learned not to ask, Mr. Bickham." She made a noise that sounded more like a laugh than anything she'd done since Sam had first called her. "And it's not so grandiose as you would think. They're just some of the local leaders in the pagan community. My father used to joke about how he was too young to be one of the Elders."

"What about Dean?"

"Mr. Finn? The only thing Lester would say was that the coyote would rescue the rabbit from her warren." Amanda sighed. "If it's any consolation, I've known Lester since I was four and I still don't understand half of what comes out of his mouth."

At least fortune cookies gave you lottery numbers.

* * *

A/N

I have probably played fast and loose with police procedure based on the storyline, but I hope I gave it a legitimate reason with Amanda's connection to a member of the force. It'll make more sense as the story progresses.

Those pamphlets about "Good Ol' Sam" really do exist. I've been handed more than my fair share. My sweet, albeit childish, revenge was to snark on the idiots who think that it's true. And, since my research fu was mildly naughty with the moon phases, I can say that I'm not the only person who believes that there was a shamanistic element to early Celtic spirituality – particularly in the myths of Taliesin. I won't belabor the point but, if you're interested, I'd be happy to refer you to some resources on the subject.

I cheated horribly with the _Daemon Incarnatus Carnis Ori_ ritual and took the song lyrics to "The Ascension" by the group Bloodbath and used them liberally for the translation bits in the Zoroastrian symbols. And since my Latin really sucks, I made absolutely no attempt to translate it into Latin for the purposes of putting Latin phrases into the story. Behold, the power of Google.

"Calix" is Latin for "Vessel" – I just didn't want to be so obviously Buffy about the whole thing. "Mater," obviously, is Latin for "Mother." In regards to the violation –where the victim's hymen is pierced by a foreign object – the closest I could come up with was the word for wand, which actually worked out well as "Virga"; I've seen some references to this act (piercing of the hymen with a foreign object, though not connected to this type of ritual) in some pre-Christian cultures but nothing I've followed up with on the research front. Could very well be one of those things that has little historical fact to back it up but becomes part of a story anyway.


End file.
